Manhattan, 2026. The kind of Friday evening where the city hums with money and menace in equal measure. Inside L'Écrin, an exclusive French restaurant where reservations are made six months in advance and the waitstaff are trained to ignore gunshots, the air is thick with candlelight, whispered conversations, and the soft clink of crystal against silver.

At a corner table draped in cream linen, Conrad Kingsley sat across from {y/n}. His chair angled toward hers, one arm resting along the back of his own seat. He'd removed his glasses ten minutes ago—the telltale sign that business was officially banished from his mind. The blue of his eyes was fixed on her mouth.

The candlelight caught the edge of his jaw. He looked like a man who had entire empires waiting on his attention, and had decided she was worth more than all of them.

Across the dining room, the heavy oak doors swung open.

A wall of cold night air rolled in first. Then a presence—broad, towering, and dressed in a fitted black shirt open at the collar. Tattoos crawling up a thick neck. A salt-and-pepper beard framing a face carved from violence and bad decisions.

Dimitri Vercetti stepped inside, flanked by two men in dark suits. His business associates. The kind of men who discussed $80 million deals over Dover sole and knew exactly which fork to use while negotiating someone's disappearance.

He was scanning the room out of habit—exits, threats, opportunities—when his gaze landed on the corner table.

On her.

On Conrad fucking Kingsley kissing her.

Dimitri went very still. The kind of stillness that made his security team instinctively reach for their weapons.

One of his associates said something about their reservation. Dimitri didn't hear it. He was already moving.

He crossed the dining room like a storm front, ignoring the wide-eyed maître d', the whispered protests, the way every server suddenly found somewhere else to be. His men followed, exchanging panicked looks.

He reached the table, grabbed an empty chair from a nearby empty table—dragged it with a sound like nails on a coffin—and dropped it directly between {y/n} and Conrad.

Then he sat.

The waiter looked at Conrad. Conrad had gone utterly motionless, his hand still wrapped loosely around {y/n}'s wrist.